Today at the pool, I had one of those moments as a mom—the kind that humbles you, sticks with you, and teaches you something important.
I was chatting with a friend when Lucy walked over. She didn’t look particularly happy and quietly said she was cold. It was well into the 90s, and the sun was blazing, so I smiled and said something like, “You’re probably the only person in this entire state who’s cold right now!” I told her to hop out and warm up on the chair, but she didn’t. She stayed close to me, hovering in the shallow end.
Soon she started making little whimpering sounds. I assumed she was trying to get attention in the wrong way, and without really thinking, I brushed it off again:
“Lucy, we don’t need to listen to you whine about being cold when you can easily hop out and solve this.”
And then…
She burst into tears.
“I don’t know where my friends are! They were in the pool and then they left me and I don’t know where they went!”
My heart sank.
Oh.
She wasn’t just cold. She was feeling lost. Left out. Alone.
I immediately wrapped my arm around her and told her we’d go find them together. And we did. And the moment passed.
But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
Because in that moment—I missed it.
I made a snap judgment based on what I thought I was seeing. I assumed she was just being dramatic. I jumped straight to correction instead of connection. I didn’t pause to ask a simple question: “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
We don’t always get it right. Even with the best intentions, even with years of experience, even with all the love in our hearts—we miss things. We respond too fast. We dismiss. We misunderstand.
But that’s not where the story has to end.
Because we also get to come back.
We get to see more clearly and love more fully the second time around. We get to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Thank you for telling me.” And we get to show our kids that even parents are still growing, still learning, still trying their best.
That moment at the pool reminded me that behavior is often a clue—not the whole story. And underneath the whining or pouting or resistance, there’s usually a need. A feeling. A hope for connection.
Sometimes we just need to slow down enough to see it.
Raising Light 